


The Dance

by everhutcher



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship/Love, Love, POV First Person, POV Male Character, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6366679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everhutcher/pseuds/everhutcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though Effie probably wanted to show him more mahogany, Peeta has his focus on other things during the biggest event of The Victory Tour. Originally written for Prompts in Panem Farewell Tour (Round 8) Day 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dance

**Author's Note:**

> This scene is Peeta's POV of a scene that is depicted in _Catching Fire_. All original text from that book that was incorporated into this has been italicized. 
> 
> I do not own anything in the Hunger Games universe. All characters, names, and places belong to their respective owners.

“I think it’s time for a dance. Katniss?”

Having our fill of the Capitol’s gluttony – both literally and figuratively – I set down the small glass Flavius has just given me and lead Katniss onto the crowded dance floor. We take our place among the garishly-dressed Capitolites and begin the graceful steps of a dance Effie has been attempting to teach us this week. It’s not that we don’t have dancing in 12, but the erratic energy of the fiddle is very different from the party’s gentle violin melodies, and the lively steps we indulge in at toastings and the harvest festival bear little resemblance to the sweeping, graceful movements of the waltz. I pull in my fiancé – the word still feels clumsy and thick like a clunky shoe that doesn’t quite fit – and begin to lead her through the steps.

I am vaguely aware that some of the other guests stare and whisper excitedly to one another as they realize who has joined them on the dance floor. Truth be told, I can only see Katniss; my gaze is locked on the gray eyes that are quickly becoming my home, especially on this tour that has us feeling so out of place. We’ve spent hours looking at one another, drifting in and out of restless sleep aboard the train, holding one another with our gazes as much as our arms. Willing one another to stay, to not wander into the land of nightmares. As she looks at me, I wonder if she’s thinking what I am… as if by looking long enough we might be magically transported away from all of this to someplace safe.

Then, it bursts out of me. I can’t help it.

_“You go along, thinking you can deal with it, thinking maybe they're not so bad, and then you—”_

I know I shouldn’t say anymore about it. Really, I can’t think of the right words to express my frustration anyway. But I don’t need to. I can see the wheels turning in her head. She has seen far more misery and death than I have. She knows exactly what I mean, and though she’s had years to practice masking the pain, the last several nights on the train together have shown me it’s only just that, a cover. She can’t hide the pain when she wakes, thrashing, terrified of the memories of miners and mutts that surface in her dreams.

My thoughts wander back to that day in the rain, which now feels like another lifetime. That day, I would’ve given anything for Katniss to feel so full of food that she would beg for a drink to make her vomit it back up. The thought of her pale face, her wet clothes clinging limply to her thin, sickly body just as she was clinging to life, renews my anger at the Capitol and all that it represents. Katniss was not the first child in Panem at death’s door, and she certainly will not be the last.

_“Peeta, they bring us here to fight to the death for their entertainment,”_ she is saying. _“Really, this is nothing by comparison.”_

Nothing to them. But everything to us. Still, in a way she’s right. I think of all the entertainment Katniss and I have provided these people, who think nothing of sending other people’s children to their deaths. I think of this farce of an engagement, the eventual sham of a marriage which lies ahead. Even children, one day? If Snow has his way, it’s a certainty. A way to breed the next generation of Victors like we’re his prized livestock. For the first time ever, I really consider what Katniss means when she says she never wants to have children. She never wants to put a child in the Capitol’s crosshairs. I get it now. The understanding that has dawned on me doesn’t stop my own wish for a family some day, but I get why she doesn’t want one. 

It’s just another way the Capitol starves the people of the districts. Only it’s starving them of the desire to bring new life into the world. 

My gaze has drifted along with my thoughts and I abruptly bring my eyes back to meet hers as I snap out of it. Katniss’s brows are raised with a questioning look. If I can trust anyone with the thoughts I wouldn’t otherwise dare say out loud, it’s her.

_“I know. I know that. It's just sometimes I can't stand it anymore. To the point where... I'm not sure what I'll do.”_

The next words stick in my throat, as if saying them might make us bigger targets then we already are. Is that even possible? What more can Snow do? Still, I drop my voice and press my lips against Katniss’s ear. To the casual observer, it’s a gesture of affection. But it masks what I want to say, rendering our comments almost unnoticed.

_“Maybe we were wrong, Katniss.”_

_“About what?”_

_“About trying to subdue things in the districts.”_

Katniss looks around, her eyes darting quickly with a slightly alarmed expression. These Capitol socialites are too self-absorbed to notice anything, but I don’t want Katniss to become too upset and I find myself backpedaling.

_“Sorry.”_

_“Save it for home,” she tells me._

I nod, but inside I scoff at her warning. As if we’re any safer there; Snow’s visit to Victor’s Village made it clear that we may never be able to talk like our true selves, be our true selves, anywhere. The act that Katniss started in the cave will never quite end; unlike other actors, we may not even be able to indulge in an intermission from time to time.

_Just then Portia appears with a large man who looks vaguely familiar. She introduces him as Plutarch Heavensbee, the new Head Gamemaker._

I can’t help but eye the man who has willingly stepped up to mastermind the death of 23 yet-to-be-reaped children and the psychological scarring of a 24th. What new and creative forms of torture does he have in store? I realize that Katniss and I will have to play an active part in his machinations this year, as mentors to two new tributes, peers from back home, maybe classmates, even people we consider friends.

Suddenly I don’t need one of those little glasses to clear my stomach of its contents. I feel sick enough.

_Plutarch asks me if he can steal Katniss for a dance._ I inhale and exhale deeply to calm the turmoil in my gut and do what I do best; the smile comes back to my face, the charm that I’ve become known for turns on like a light switch. I’m camera-ready once again.

“Of course,” I reply, taking Katniss’s hand and passing it to the gamemaker. “Just don’t get too attached.” Plutarch chuckles as I step away, but Katniss isn’t smiling. I know the last place she wants to be is in the arms of this man, dancing like she has anything to celebrate.

“Peeta, there are a few people who would like to meet you.”

I allow Portia to lead me to the dessert table, where several pastry chefs are clustered, eager to show me their work. I’m sure they hope that an endorsement from a Victor, the baker’s boy of District 12 no less, will do wonders for their business. In all honesty, I find myself interested in their craft because it’s finally something I finally connect with in this circus. I admire the elaborate swirls of buttercream with a twinge of envy. Frosting is so simple. Sugar, butter, a little milk. No complications. How I wish my life was still that straightforward. 

One thing remains relatively simple, however, and that’s my love for Katniss. Maybe the only good thing to come from this Victory Tour is the dawning realization that in spite of her words on the way home from the Games, there is something connecting us, a bond keeping us afloat on a sea of threats and uncertainty. And while it was she who asked me to stay with her that night on the train, I now realize how much I needed to connect with her, too. And it’s not just that I’ve loved her since we were children. No. The Games changed something in me irrevocably, something only Katniss understands.

I didn’t mean to further upset her during our dance. I should’ve been happy enough just to have her in my arms. But I can’t be happy when it feels like a farce. Because it is. Our lives are in limbo, turning in endless circles like we were doing on that dance floor. Just going through the motions. Hell, everyone in Panem is dancing to Snow’s tune when I think about it.

I didn’t want to have her like this. I’ll do whatever I can to save Katniss and our families, but now because of the way this has unfolded, I may never truly have her. To her it will never feel anything but coerced. I’ll shield her from as much of the Capitol’s abuses as I can for as long as I can. At least I’m pretty sure she knows she’s safe with me, and I hope that thought is a comfort to her. 

And when that doesn’t seem to work, I’ll feed her.

I know Katniss can’t resist sweets, and the thought of watching her enjoy them after such a stressful tour makes my heart swell. So in spite of my complaints about the gluttony of the Capitol, I ask the bakers to pack up some samples for me to take on the train tonight. Maybe I can copy a few of their techniques; I don’t think even my mother can criticize my work if I tell her the inspiration comes from the Capitol. Maybe I’ll finally feel a little like my old self again.

The object of my affection appears just then, having survived her dance with Plutarch. She looks unsettled, but I decide to ask her about it later, when there are fewer eyes and ears fixated on us.

_“Effie said we have to be on the train at one. I wonder what time it is,”_ I say, glancing around. 

_“Almost midnight,”_ Katniss replies. She locks eyes with me and adds, “I glanced at Plutarch’s watch while we were dancing.” I don’t know why her voice sounds slightly anxious, but I guess she’s as eager to get out of here as I am.

I grin as Katniss notices the open box of pastries beside me, and reaches out to swipe a chocolate flower from the edge of one of the cakes, a move that would have Effie clucking like a hen over her lack of manners. As much as it feels like we have to watch our every move, it’s little moments like this which show me that Katniss still has a defiant spirit. I wonder what the years of living with the Capitol’s scrutiny will do to that vivacity as we play out this engagement and eventually, our marriage. As we dance again and again to the Capitol’s tune instead of our own.

God, I want it to be real. I want Katniss to want this. I didn’t want her to feel forced into a life with me, but part of me can’t help but imagine what that life will be like. Maybe she can learn to feel for me the way I do for her. Someday. 

Someday, it might even be real.


End file.
